


"She wants to dance like Uma Thurman"

by Morie_mordant



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: "I am legend" type of zombies, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Alternative Universe - no voltron, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Apocalypse, Shiro (Voltron)-centric, Shiro Week 2017
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-04 23:02:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12781533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morie_mordant/pseuds/Morie_mordant
Summary: Shiro doesn't remember where he's going. Where to? Where from? What for? But what he does remember is that someone out there is waiting for him.





	"She wants to dance like Uma Thurman"

**Author's Note:**

> The title of the fic and the song Shiro's singing is "Uma Thurman" by Fall Out Boy
> 
>  
> 
> english is not my first language, so please bear that in mind

Day one hundred thirty-four.

Shiro zipped up and turned on the tap. The faucet shuddered and hummed, but after a while, the rusty water eventually started coming out in bursts. Having washed his face, he dried it with his sleeve and held the mask with his right shoulder, as he fastened the clasps at the back of his head.

On one of the shelves, he found a rubber band to tie his hair and keep them out of his face. Good news: there was a couple of nutrition bars with nuts and dried fruits, forgotten in the piles of garbage in the kitchen, and a cereal box, and even a tea tin. Bad news: there was no fuel; that meant he was not able to refill his car, and that meant that he had to continue his trip on foot.

Reddish clouds thickened, stretching over the whole sky, but Shiro only pulled his hood lower. The weather was deceptive, and patches of skin, exposed accidentally, quickly turned into painful burns under the scorching sun.

Without a second glance at the frail one-story house at the edge of the road, he walked away. The dusty highway ran towards the very horizon, on both sides were the flatlands, the only vegetation to be withered shrubs. Behind the lilac goggles, the landscape seemed slightly surreal.

 _“She wants to dance like Uma Thurman, bury me 'til I confess. She wants to dance like Uma Thurman and I can’t get you out of my head_ ,” his voice was hoarse, muffled by the mask, and he did not remember the tune that well anymore.

Besides, he was not sure if he was actually singing aloud, but even so, it was easier.

Usually, he did not stop during the day; while he was in motion, he did not have to think about needs like the toilet, water, and food, as for the latter he had none anyway. He was placing his feet one after another with his brain on autopilot, reciting a song about Uma Thurman, velocity calculation formulas, and the multiplication table. The straps of his backpack dug into his sore shoulders. Somehow a pebble ended up in his left boot.

The path through the desert was safer. The creatures were crawling out during the nights, but as they had nowhere to hide from the rigorous sunlight, they stayed away from open spaces. However, at the same time as he was approaching the Garrison, he was coming closer and closer to the canyons, and Shiro knew firsthand what was swarming within those shadows.

Twilight painted the world in burgundy shades – as if blood was splattered across the glass of his goggles – not a single star could be seen through the toxic clouds. He saw a starry sky in his dreams.

At night, as the heat dissipated in a matter of minutes, Shiro wrapped himself in his poncho, straightening the high collar to cover his throat. At some point one had to stop; he spread a rug on the bare ground, lifted his mask and pulled off with his teeth the strings and flaps of cloth covering his arm, revealing the watch on his wrist. The display was cracked, but the mechanism was still functioning. He relaxed the ropes and rags around his calves and took off the heavy boots to give his swollen feet at least some rest.

“Aha, cherry, lucky you,” trying to chew slowly, he stared into the gathering darkness in hopes to see a flame of living somewhere in the distance. “Bet you forgot how it tastes. You know, sugar is good for you. At the Garrison, the food is awful. Instant mashed potatoes, pre-packed meat, and veggies from the freezer. Not that it is any better at the lab. Had to drag those white-coats myself to the dining hall, and they wolfed down anything, hot or cold, and then they’d go straight back to work. Crazy, ha-ha.”

Finished with his nutrition bars, he put his shoes back on, re-did the knot on the empty sleeve so that it won’t just hang, and got up. It was dangerous to stay in one place for a long time.

He could not remover where exactly he was heading to or the purpose of it. Where to? Where from? He was clinging to the memories he still got: I am Shiro. I’m Shiro, I’m Shiro, I’m Shiro – or maybe he was, in fact, muttering it under his breath. He had someone else’s clothes on him, hardened with the dried up sweat, blood, and mucus.  
There was a dark-haired woman of medium height, she snorted and jokingly called him “my champion”. There was a scrawny guy with a freckled round face, and he was sitting, burying himself in the computer. There was his bayard, his favorite tin, which helped him to cleanse the territory and protect his people.  
There was a snarling muzzle, dripping saliva, long fangs to dig into his shoulder, then there was only pain-pain-pain…  
Then dark eyes under the frowning brows, an uncertain smile and a warm hand in his hand.  
Shiro knew the scratches, scars, and calluses on those hands by heart as he knew the constellations. And he dreamed of those just as often.

“I’ll wait for you.”

Wait, no. This one was before the snarling muzzle, the dark corridors, before the explosion, the laboratory. Before the end of the world.

Memories were mixing up.

On day forty-two, he found a small ghost town, and gave himself a break for a day. He managed to take a shower and found scissors to cut his hair. He was only twenty-five, and he had gray strands already, almost white against the rest of his hair, pitch black. Lunching with the canned food, he heard a child weeping – he instantly jerked up at the sound, blocked by the thumping of his own heart.

The child weeping turned out to be a hungry meow. A black kitten with icy blue eyes fit whole into his palm, terrifying to hold such a tiny thing, afraid to squeeze unintentionally and hurt it.

“Now, now, bud,” Shiro croaked with approval, trying to re-accustom to his own voice.

Black preferred to curl on his shoulder and snored in her sleep, amusing him. It seemed as if she was actually listening to him, understanding him, purring along while he was singing to entertain them during a drive. She learned quite fast to do her business in a litter box (a normal box with a newspapers blanket).

The dark-haired woman in a white coat over the purple robes, too, had a cat. Black too. That one could not stand anyone, though, except for herself and her husband, and Shiro’s arms – well, the arm now – had deep scratches all over.

Soon he discovered that animals apparently sensed the creatures much better than him. Black would stop and hiss, and her hackles would rise, the tail straightening up. Shiro would pull out a fire ax from behind his belt and would try to tread swiftly and stealthily, catching the creatures by surprise.

“You and I make good partners, don’t we?” Shiro chuckled, stroking her fleecy back.

Black opened one eye lazily, looking at him quizzically, but at last, decided not to argue.

Before long, they ran out of food and water.

Seventy hours before they reached the frail one-story house by the highway, Black succumbed. Now one would find a little hill by the threshold, while Shiro was on his own again.

_“And I slept in last night’s clothes and tomorrow’s dreams but they’re not quite what they seem.”_

The edge of the sky dawned with pink flames.

Day one hundred thirty-five.


End file.
